


in the land of gods and monsters

by dorothymcshane



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Italian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothymcshane/pseuds/dorothymcshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara was just looking for a sugar daddy, she never intended to meet a crime lord who goes by the name of the Doctor and has his own reasons for wanting someone like her by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the land of gods and monsters

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a one shot, but the story kind of took a life of its own, so I'll probably write a few more chapters, but don't worry, it won't be a fifty chapters long mess like that other one of my fics.

“Clara, this is a terrible idea,” Amy says. She’s lying on Clara’s bed while Clara’s trying out different outfits in front of the mirrors in her room. “This is the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had, including the time when you applied to that reality show.”

   Clara rolls her eyes at her. “You’ve already made your opinion clear, thank you very much.”

   Amy sits up, leaning her hands against the mattress. “I’m just worried about you.”

   “Don’t be,” Clara says, turning around to face her instead of their reflections. “Do you think this dress is too much?”

   “You look like you’re going to a secret cocktail party in the twenties.”

   “So, too much.”

   “Yeah,” Amy agrees after eyeing her for a few more seconds. “Go for that black top with the jeans instead.”

   Clara sighs, casting a glance at the pile of clothes on the floor. “I want to make an _impression_. I want him to fall head over heels in love with me. I can’t look like ... a broke uni student.”

   Amy raises an eyebrow, an amused expression on her face. “Like you are?”

   Clara lets herself fall backwards onto the bed, still wearing the flapper dress. “Exactly.”

   “Wear those red heels,” Amy advices her, “and I’ll let you borrow my matching lipstick. Trust me, you’ll look stunning. He’d have to be an idiot not to fall in love with you.”

   Clara rolls around to her side, focusing her gaze on Amy. “You think so?”

   “Definitely,” Amy says. “And then he’ll buy you all the dresses you could ever wish for, and pay for your tuition fees, and you’ll live happily ever after. Until he dies and you get to inherit his entire fortune.”

   A smile spreads across Clara’s lips. “Sounds perfect.”

   “I still think this is a terrible idea, though.”

   “Yeah, yeah.”

 

 

They’re meeting at a restaurant in Soho. It’s located in a red brick building and doesn’t look that spectacular from the outside, but as soon as Clara steps inside the restaurant, it’s like she’s stepped inside another world, and she feels a shiver run down her spine. The restaurant’s warmly lit, furnished in dark shades of red and green, the round tables covered in white cloths, and she can’t quite explain what it is about it all that looks so expensive.

   She lets her gaze sweep across the room, looking for _him_ with her eyes, but it’s too crowded for her to be able to spot him anywhere.

   “Do you have a reservation?” a waiter asks her, apparently picking up on how out of place she feels.

   “Yeah,” she says, forcing herself to straighten her back and pretend that she belongs there. “I’m here with John Smith.”

   The waiter nods, clearly recognising the name. “Follow me.”

   He leads her to a corner table, and her heart skips a beat when her gaze falls upon the man she recognises as John Smith. He’s on the phone, discussing some kind of deal, scribbling down numbers on a serviette, but he ends the call when he notices Clara. She shoots him a dazzling smile, swaying her hips a little more than usually as she crosses the floor to the other side of the table.

   “Miss Oswin, I presume,” he says, turning around the serviette so that she can’t see his writing on it. He’s dressed all in black, wearing gold rings on most of his fingers, and his grey locks are perfectly dishevelled.

   “That’s me,” she says. The fake name was Amy’s idea, but she has to admit that it was something she should have thought of. “And you must be John.”

   “Call me the Doctor,” he says, his tone vaguely amused.

   “The Doctor,” she echoes. “So what are you a doctor of?”

   “Now there’s a question that’s never asked often enough.”

   It hasn’t even been a minute, and Clara already feels like she’s out of her depth. Nothing about him is what she expected. There’s a hint of danger in his grey blue eyes, and something in the air around him that she can’t quite put her finger on. He talks like he knows something other people don’t, like every word he utters is an inside joke of some sort. Clara’s always been good at reading other people, but her instincts seem to fail her completely when it comes to the man who’s sitting in front of her.

   “Are you ready to order?” a waiter who’s stopped beside their table asks them, stealing their attention.

   Clara glances down at the untouched menu in front of her.

   “Let’s just have a bottle of wine, to begin with,” the Doctor says. “The Montrachet from 1983.”

   The waiter smiles politely. “As you wish.”

   “Now,” the Doctor says, turning his gaze back to Clara, “why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

   She refuses to let him intimidate her, even though she knows she’s supposed to be sweet and charming, according to all of the websites she’s skimmed for advice. “Why don’t _you_ tell me about yourself?”

   A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s genuine. “I’m a businessman.”

   “And why are you looking for a ... companion?”

   “Because it’s lonely at the top.”

   Either he’s a horrendous liar or he isn’t even trying to make it sound believable. Clara’s ninety-nine percent sure the first alternative isn’t the correct one.

   “What kind of company do you work for?” she asks him, making a half-hearted attempt at sounding polite.

   “I don’t work _for_ anyone,” he says, his lips still curved upwards in that strange smile. “People work for me.”

   Clara taps her blood red fingernails against the table. “Right.”

   “Anyway, this isn’t the place to discuss my work.”

   She doesn’t press him for more information after that, but turns her attention towards the menu, reading random bits and pieces of the descriptions of the different dishes. “What do you recommend?”

   “If I were you I’d choose whatever’s the most expensive,” he says, and there’s a challenge in his voice that she doesn’t quite understand until he continues. “You don’t know when you’re going to get the chance to dine at a place like this again.”

   “Soon, I assume,” she retorts. “Unless you’re planning on lowering your standards for the second date.”

   He laughs, and it takes a moment for her to figure out why it sounds so strange, but then she realises that it’s because it’s the first time during their conversation that he’s appeared to have dropped his façade, or at least let her witness that there’s something beneath it.

   “Your wine,” the waiter who has reappeared next to their table says, filling their glasses when the Doctor nods towards them. “Have you had time to take a look at the menu?”

   “I’ll have the vegetable terrine and the mushroom toast, please,” Clara says. It’s far from the most expensive dish, but she has no intention of playing whatever game it is that the Doctor thinks he’s the master of.

   “The same for me,” he says, without even glancing at the menu.

   “And what about appetisers?”

   The Doctor leans his elbows against the table and places his chin in his hands. “What do you say, Clara Oswald?”

   She blinks. “Sorry, what?”

   “Go on, order something.”

   “The lobster mousse with caviar and champagne sauce,” she says, mentioning the first dish her gaze falls upon when she looks back down at the menu.

   “Perfect,” the waiter says, before leaving them alone at the table once more.

   “You knew my name,” Clara immediately says.

   The Doctor leans backwards again and shrugs, his entire body language infuriatingly nonchalant. “I had someone find it out.”

   “So, you’re a stalker,” Clara says, rising from the table. “Just my luck.”

   “Hey,” the Doctor says, letting his fingertips brush against one of her arms as she passes him. “Wait.”

   She shakes her head, but against her better judgment, she does stop. “I’ve had enough of you.”

   “Do you really think I would’ve taken this kind of risk without looking into who you were beforehand?” he says. “I needed to make sure you weren’t a threat to me. Well, try to. Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – assassins have still managed to get close to me.”

   Clara just stares at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

   “The thing is,” he says, ignoring her question, “I need to be careful. About whom I trust, about whom I meet with, about whom I let into my life. I didn’t have Jamie look you up because I didn’t want to trust you. When you’re someone like me, it’s simply a necessity.”

   “’Someone like you’,” Clara echoes. “What exactly does that entail?”

   “It’s ... complicated.”

   “Frankly, I don’t care about how complicated it is. _I_ just want to make sure that I’m not getting involved with something I don’t want to get involved with.”

   The Doctor interlaces his fingers with hers, looking up at her with those mesmeric eyes. “I think you do, Clara. I think that’s exactly why you’re here, because you’ve had enough of books and being bored. There’s a lust for adventure in your eyes, don’t pretend like that’s not true.”

   “ _One_ dinner,” she says, “and if I tell you that I don’t want anything to do with you after this, you have to respect that.”

   He nods. “Naturally.”


End file.
